


Disorganized Chaos

by orphan_account



Category: Jurassic Park (1993), Jurassic Park (Movies), Jurassic Park Series - Michael Crichton
Genre: Dr Ian Malcolm, Drabble, Gen, Ian Malcolm - Freeform, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Ian Malcolm had a panic attack after the incident</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disorganized Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> This whole fic is a bit of disorganized chaos: very short and a bit messy but I love Ian to bits and the recent re-release of JP in 3D has rekindled my love for the series. I wish there was more fics out here :)

He has his first panic attack on a 10am passenger flight from Costa Rica to LAX in seat H4 while they're still sitting on the tarmac. The others had all been discharged from the hospital days earlier, already caught flights back home. Alan and Ellie would be back on the dig site by now, the kids in school, Hammond hopefully dealing with a shitload of lawsuits. Ian's the last to leave Costa Rica, with a mangled leg, a fistful of hospital bills he'll be posting to John Hammond as soon as he can hobble his way to a postbox, and the fuel for enough nightmares to last him several lifetimes. 

And then there's the PTSD. 

Maybe it was the noise of the jets, someone will suggest to him later. Sure, hell, maybe it was. Ian doesn't know what set him off and he doesn't particularly give a shit, either. All he knows is that his heart starts beating hard enough that he can feel it like a hammer to the ribs and his vision goes all funny and he starts sweating enough to soak through his clothes and his chest is tight and his throat has closed and he can't breathe or think or see and he feels faint and sick and he has no idea what his body is doing and everyone on the flight is yelling at him in a language he doesn't speak and it's the most absolutely terrifying thing he's every experienced in his life. 

They have to call someone in to calm him down and then they have to find someone who speaks English and they can't let the plane take off while he's like this so they sit on the ground while he's shaking and crying with a hundred people looking at him and probably calling him vulgar names in whatever the hell language they're speaking and some fat white guy kneeling in front of him telling him he's having an anxiety attack over and over.

They're about to phone 911 or have him breathe into a bag or something when it just goes, it stops, and he sits there feeling lightheaded and terrified. They bring him a stupid paper cup of water that he spills all over his face because his hands are shaking so bad. He doesn't stop crying, though. For five and a half hours he sits there in his own sweat and humiliation with tears running down his face and by the time they touch down he's almost bawling and beyond caring about it. 

That's panic attack number one. 

His second is on the street outside his apartment and it gets broadcast on national television. It's been about two months since that plane touched down in LAX and his scientific credibility is already down the toilet so it's kind of fitting that the world gets to see him break down on live TV if only to work as a metaphor for his crumbling career. 

There's about a million reporters outside his place with cameras and microphones and everything and that's getting ordinary for him these days. Once upon a time Ian Malcolm would have put on his cockiest grin and strutted down the sidewalk through the flashing cameras like a king. Bed a couple of the reporters. Marry one. Maybe have a kid. Break up. Repeat as infinitum. 

Except that that was then and this is now and Ian Malcolm goes out the front door only to tell them to get the fuck off his lawn and then suddenly he's hyperventilating right in the middle of the street and his vision gets dark and he's lost all control of himself. Its not until he watches himself on youtube that he understands what had actually gone on. They film the whole thing, of course, and the fucked up scientist having a nervous breakdown gets broadcast all over America and then kicks about on the Internet for awhile before someone takes it down. Maybe Hammond. Maybe someone else. He doesn't really give a shit either way. It's probably still out there, somewhere, if you look hard enough. 

Lucky number three is a restaurant in Santa Monica where he's eating shrimp with garlic sauce by himself at a table right next to the goddamn kitchen so that whenever some waiter opens the door it bashes the back of his chair. There's music playing. Maybe the bass makes his water ripple. Maybe it's a truck passing by, or the kitchen door banging his seat, or a minor earthquake. All he knows is that the water in his glass starts trembling and his vision kind of tunnels and the next thing he knows he's in the alleyway outside the kitchen puking up shrimp with garlic sauce while some weird sketchy guy who probably sells drugs or at the very least takes them is patting him on the back. 

He doesn't try to sell Ian any drugs, which is probably for the best, because Ian would have bought them. Anything to make his mind stop screaming. 

He just wants his mind to stop screaming.


End file.
